A Heartwarming Thanksgiving

by Amy Vastine

  “Only because you didn’t have something in your hand. What was that something, Mr. Hadley?”

  * * *

  The trouble with being a lawyer raised by lawyers in a family where everyone was a lawyer—from Brenda Thomas’ second cousins to her great aunt—was that just about everyone in the court system was related to her somehow or within three degrees of separation.

  Take Judge John Kowalski. He was her father’s best friend. They’d gone to law school together. The Thomases spent every Thanksgiving holiday with the Kowalskis at their sprawling vacation ranch northeast of Santa Rosa. And the Kowalskis spent New Year’s at the Tahoe cabin owned by the Thomases.

  That connection didn’t mean Brenda was going to find any leniency with “Uncle John.” In fact, given that she’d just returned to practicing in the San Francisco Bay area after years of working in New York, Uncle John might use this case to make an example of her.

  Brenda wouldn’t blame him if he did. She didn’t much care for Clinton Hadley’s attitude. He was hiding something. Clients who withheld information from their lawyers deserved what they got. When he’d complained about being held in jail two nights, she’d had to bite her lip from saying, “Boo-hoo.”

  But she couldn’t just go through the motions. She had to try to get her client free, if only for the fact that she hadn’t been at Wilson, Wilson and Wyatt very long. She was so new, her health insurance hadn’t kicked in yet.

  The case was called. Almost as one, the media shifted in their seats, filling the court with the sound of creaking plastic, shuffling feet, and the click of record buttons to capture every word spoken about the football star.

  Brenda sat next to her client, feeling like a dwarf next to his tall, muscular frame. But at least, she was a freshly showered dwarf.

  “I need to play in Sunday’s game,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll do anything to make it happen.”

  His warm breath planted a stake of awareness in her spine. She wasn’t used to feeling attraction to clients who were larger than life and had a secret. Maybe it was because she didn’t know his. Maybe it was because she was disappointed in him. She’d always admired Clinton Hadley as a squeaky clean quarterback in a competitive league where players would do anything to stay on a roster. He’d been in trouble with the law several times over the past few months, maybe even since the playoffs last year when a brutal sack had earned him four broken ribs. Make no mistake. His arrests and run-ins with the law were small things. But in her book, small things added up to one thing where athletes were concerned: train wreck ahead.

  She glanced up at Clinton. Finely chiseled features, crisply cut black hair, dark brown eyes that could dissect a defense in less than ten seconds. He was known for his ability to adjust a play on the fly, to take risks, to think outside the box. What line had he crossed?

  He caught her stare and smiled. It wasn’t a smile that found humor in the situation. Or one to charm. It was the same smile he gave competitors when he was under center calling a play. It said, “I’ve got this.” It said, “Bring it on.” It said, “You have no idea what’s coming your way.”

  Clinton Hadley didn’t have this. And an attitude like that was detrimental to Brenda’s success. Marbury Wilson had been clear on the phone this morning. Clinton had to make the game on Sunday, or she’d be fired. And considering the way she’d left her last job, only the most desperate firm would touch her if Marbury let her go.

  Uncle John stared down at Brenda. The furrows he’d earned over years of serving on the bench deepened. He brushed back his peppery hair and reviewed Clinton’s file once more before reading the charges aloud. “I’ve seen you in my courtroom far too often, Mr. Hadley. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty,” Clinton said in a firm voice.

  The district attorney’s grin found humor in Clinton’s plea and a back door into Brenda’s competitive streak. “Your Honor, I’d like to call the arresting officer to the stand.”

  Clinton leaned down to whisper in her ear again. “He’s going to tell the truth.”

  She noted Clinton’s smile, his intensity, his air of complete domination. In any other circumstance, she’d be happy to see a man with an ego like that go down. “Maybe you should try it sometime,” she whispered back. “The truth, that is. I hear it’ll set you free.”

  His dark eyes glittered and she felt another stake of awareness.

  “Not guilty. Not taking the stand either.” He shot a half-glance over his shoulder to the media in the peanut gallery.

  He valued privacy over freedom? If he wanted to play on Sunday, he didn’t have the luxury.

  “You leave me no choice,” Brenda whispered. “But to throw you on the mercy of the court.” He’d given her nothing to defend and now wouldn’t even defend himself.

  Instead of her statement putting the fear of Judge Kowalski in him, his gaze turned calculating.

  Brenda listened to the policeman’s testimony, only occasionally objecting to speculation he made and leading the witness by the public defender, who’d been in her brother’s fraternity in college. She was making a pitiful showing, but what had she been given to work with?

  And then came her turn.

  She stood. “Your Honor, as pointed out by the arresting officer, there were several events that occurred during the night in question that contributed to the escalation of tension.”

  Uncle John nodded for her to proceed.

  “The clerk at the yard refused my client access to his vehicle for the simple fact that he had no car registration. That document was in the vehicle and the clerk refused to accompany my client to the vehicle to retrieve it.” Forget that there’d been a line out the door that night at the impound lot, which was normal for a Saturday in the Bay Area. And forget that Clinton had been belligerent and impatient with the clerk’s response.

  Uncle John’s eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t forget either fact, but he didn’t stop her from trying to make some kind of case out of nothing.

  “My client was wrong to try and retrieve his registration by sneaking into the yard when a tow truck entered.”

  Uncle John’s assessing gaze turned on Clinton.

  “But the tow truck driver did try to taze him.” And missed. “And then took a swing at my client.” Which he’d dodged.

  “Your client disregarded protocol and bent the rules and struck a man trying to do his job when he was caught.”

  Sadly, all true. “My client has been going through a difficult time, Your Honor. He’s under a lot of pressure, with his every move analyzed by the media.” She gestured to the packed seats behind her.

  “Maybe it’s time your client learned there are consequences to his actions. A week in jail sounds like it’ll give him time to realize his success on the football field doesn’t entitle him to—”

  “I’m guilty, Your Honor,” Clinton said in a loud voice as he came to his feet.

  The courtroom erupted. The district attorney grinned. Uncle John called for order.

  “What Ms. Thomas says is true. I’ve had a difficult few months, but things are beginning to turn around. I’ve fallen in love and I can guarantee you that this woman will keep me out of trouble and out of your courtroom.”

  “Really, Mr. Hadley?” If Uncle John hadn’t said it, Brenda might have, with a bump in the sarcasm and a raised brow.

  “Yes, sir.” Clinton had just the right touch of sincerity in his tone, just the right softness in his eyes to be believed.

  Not by Brenda or Uncle John, but perhaps by a rookie lifestyle reporter.

  “It happened so quickly and unexpectedly, I don’t think even the media knows. I’m getting married.” He turned to Brenda. “I’m getting married as soon as she’ll have me.” And then he dropped down on one knee and took Brenda’s hands. “I’ve waited for someone like you my whole life. Say you’ll marry me. Now. Today.”

  * * *

  “You’re an idiot,” Clinton’s attorney whispered to him as they walked through
the courtroom halls behind Judge Kowalski and the district attorney. “It’s time to tell the truth.”

  “I have to play in Sunday’s game.” There was more than a loss at stake. There was his pride. “If I have to marry you to do it, I will.”

  Ms. Thomas had ditched her glasses and her smoothly modulated, lawyerly tones. Her eyes flashed and her words were sharp. What she hadn’t ditched was her desire to get him off the hook. He’d seen the competitive look in her eyes when she watched the district attorney present his case. He’d use that if he could.

  “Marrying the client is not part of Wilson, Wilson and Wyatt’s service.” It was almost impossible to comprehend, but—for all her conservative ways—his lawyer was attractive. She had a fire in her eyes that threatened to burn him with angry intensity. “There’s only one way I’ll go through with this.”

  He nearly tripped on the smooth marble. “Which is?”

  “Tell me what was in the car.” She gripped his bicep through the thin cotton of the shirt he’d had on since Saturday. “And don’t lie.”

  Clinton considered calling the proceedings to a halt. For like two seconds. And then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “My back up quarterback left Viagra in the car.”

  He expected sex jokes. Even a censorious glance. He didn’t expect an eye roll or her next words.

  “Are you one of the idiots that believes Viagra gives you better performance on the playing field?”

  “No.” He straightened and looked at her more closely. Yep, this was still the conservatively buttoned up lawyer he’d met barely thirty minutes ago, not some sports reporter. “Lewis does.”

  She still had hold of his arm. She tugged on it to slow him down. “I can use this in your defense.”

  Clinton clapped a hand over hers and sped up. “No. That kind of thing will follow me around for years. No one will believe they weren’t mine.” Not just in the media, but on the field, in the locker room. There’d be fans in the stadium holding signs they couldn’t show on TV. It would impact his endorsement deals and his future in sportscasting or coaching. “You said if I told you, you’d go through with this.”

  “That wasn’t the best deal of my career. I wish I had more time to make you see reason, but…” She glanced ahead and laughed like she’d just gone off the deep edge. “If we’re going to do this, there’s something you should know. You might change your mind. God knows, I should.”

  What he knew was she was walking with him to the county clerk’s office with a pack of rabid reporters. “You didn’t call me out in front of the judge earlier. You’re not going to do it now.”

  “I should,” she said again. “I should as soon as we step through that door. You’d thank me someday.”

  “Marbury Wilson guaranteed me his firm would do anything to defend me. It was why he won my business. Come clean now and I’ll fire your firm.” With freedom so near, he prayed she wouldn’t back out now.

  “There’s always pro bono work,” she muttered, frowning as they passed through the doorway.

  “Here we are.” Judge Kowalski stood in the county clerk’s office in his black courtroom robes surrounded by the district attorney, his bailiff, and the media. “If you truly love each other, now’s the time to commit.”

  “And the case?” Ms. Thomas was no dummy. She wanted to know the stakes.

  “If Mr. Hadley really loves you and you stay married for a week—” The judge’s expression indicated he doubted this had a snowball’s chance in the desert. “—I’ve talked to the district attorney about time served and community service.”

  His lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “The length and specificity of service?”

  “An eight hour shift at the impound lot during the Saturday night rush—ten a.m. to six a.m.”

  “With all the other belligerent drunks, reckless speeders, and double parkers who’ve had their cars towed and aren’t happy about it.” The district attorney grinned.

  “For the record,” Ms. Thomas said with authority Clinton doubted she was feeling. “My client was none of those things when he was arrested.”

  There was a moment of silence, like the calm before an expected downpour.

  Clinton took his attorney’s cold hand and moved into line. There was a bulletin board of wedding photos on the lobby wall. Happy couples who truly loved each other. Had they been in church, Clinton was sure lightening would have struck and the resulting downpour would have drowned them.

  In a matter of minutes, it was done. Clinton was married. The eggs sat like an overinflated ball in his stomach.

  “Go on,” someone from the media urged. “Kiss her.”

  Clinton stared into his wife’s dark brown eyes and couldn’t remember her first name. Time seemed to slow. Or maybe it was the realization that the woman who stood before him was quietly, classically beautiful. And a complete stranger.

  He took a lock of dark brown hair and rubbed its silky softness between his fingers, hesitating.

  “I’ve never known you to be trigger-shy before,” she murmured.

  He grinned. And that grin led to a kiss so tender and so brief, he had no chance to register more than the softness of her lips matched the softness of her hair.

  The judge hugged Clinton’s lawyer…er, wife. “We’ll see you Wednesday night, my dear.”

  “Yes, Uncle John.”

  The world—which had slowed moments ago—spun at an alarming rate.

  Uncle John?

  Judge Kowalski, aka Uncle John, tweaked her nose. “You come prepared to tell the whole truth. This is a story everyone will want to hear.” And then he scowled at the media, who’d been taking pictures with flashes at a blinding rate. “Show’s over.” And then he scowled at Clinton and took him aside. “I’ll be watching you from now until Sunday.”

  Uncle John? Uncle John would be watching him?

  Clinton had been thinking the marriage stunt might get him off the hook or at least provide him with a better bargaining chip. He hadn’t thought beyond the county clerk’s office and marrying his lawyer.

  Brenda led him down the hall to a side door marked Authorized Personnel Only, and to the parking lot and a shiny black BMW. “Get in.”

  “Uncle John?” And here he’d thought the worst of it was over. It was his turn to laugh somewhat hysterically. “Oh, there was something I needed to know all right.”

  “I tried to tell you.” She didn’t wait for him to buckle up to put the car in gear and back out. “That was wrong in so many ways. Blackmail and harassment on your part. Fraud on mine.”

  “Lack of a pre-nup,” he deadpanned. Clinton couldn’t shake the feeling that the judge was out to get him. “What did the judge mean about Wednesday?”

  “You’d have been smarter to ask what was behind his terms of staying married a week.” She waved to the lot’s security guard, pulled forward as if ready to drive away, and stopped. “If you have plans for Wednesday and Thursday, cancel them. You’ll either be staying at Judge Kowalski’s vacation home with me or you’ll be in jail.”

  He’d been blind-sided and tackled, the air forced from his lungs. “That would mean that you and I…”

  “Have to pretend, not just to like each other, but to be madly in love with each other and fully vested in a real marriage.”

  He envied her calm glance, her ability to see three steps ahead when he’d only seen two.

  “Last chance.” She clutched the wheel tighter. “I can turn this car around and we can throw ourselves on the mercy of the court. We’ll both add contempt to our sins, but we won’t have lie after lie on our consciences.”

  “I’m sorry.” He really was. “But this marriage got me out of jail. And I have to play in Sunday’s game.”

  How hard would it be to pretend to love this woman for a few days?

  Surprisingly, he didn’t think it’d be hard at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A cold front had moved into the Bay Area, and Brenda couldn’t seem to get warm.

 
She managed to avoid court, her family and the media until Wednesday. News of their marriage had made all the major news outlets. Clinton was milking it for all it was worth, as if the more headlines he made, the more likely Uncle John would be to believe him. Brenda had taken the opposite approach. She didn’t answer her phone, not even when her boss called from the Bahamas to praise her creativity. All emails and texts from her family were answered with: Swamped. Sorry. All will be explained on Thanksgiving.

  All wouldn’t be explained. She was going to lie to them. To her mom and dad. And the more she thought about it, the colder she got.

  At noon Wednesday, Brenda drove north out of the city and picked Clinton up from the Santa Rosa airport. He’d flown in, which allowed him to attend practice and player meetings before the holiday. Uncle John’s ranch retreat was an hour northeast of Santa Rosa in the middle of nowhere, which would be a blessing since the media wouldn’t be around.

  After stowing his bag in the trunk, Clinton slid into the passenger seat and tossed two bouquets of flowers in the back. “One for your mom and one for the judge’s wife.”

  That was sweet.

  “That was slick,” she said instead, annoyed that she’d had to hide for two days and then had to deal with nearly deadlocked traffic for more than four hours.

  “I’m just trying to help, honey.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sweetie?”

  “Not that either.”

  “Darling?”

  She chose to ignore his attempts at marital humor. “We just need to get through two days without any more lies.” Impossible. She didn’t even like the man. How was she going to convince her family she loved him? “There’s still time to confess.”

  “Why would you do that when we’ve only got four more days to go?”

  “Because I’ll be lying to my parents, while you’ll be lying to strangers.” Something he seemed adept at doing. “What did you tell your parents?”

  “My parents are dead.”